Boats Against the Current
by ZiggycamefromMars
Summary: So we beat on, Jay and I, boats against the current, with only each other to hold and our fears to anchor us. (Nick/Gatsby. Post-shooting, with an alternate ending. Based on both the book and movie). Rating will soon become M.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:**

**I watched The Great Gatsby the other day, and I fell in love. And then I read the novel and fell even deeper.**

**No idea if this is any good; I've never written anything like this before, so be gentle with me.**

* * *

I woke to find Gatsby beside me, and there was something about the way he was looking at me that told me something was wrong. The realisation that I had been shot wouldn't hit me yet; I was far too tired and far too pained to realise, and the presence—although unexpected—of Gatsby, was enough to send my mind reeling.

And I was disgusted, at first, to find that Daisy had not so much as called—but why I expected a single flower, perhaps even a word, still puzzles me to this day. Daisy had seemed so kind, so real, but what Daisy was not was loyal; compassionate, selfless. She had abandoned Jay Gatsby. In my eyes he was in love with the idea of Daisy, and in a way I always believed Daisy Buchanan represented everything he'd always wanted in life—at least, I hoped so, and was not just clinging to this lifeless, bitter, accusation.

"Old Sport—do you hear me, Old Sport? Don't ever do that again. You gave me such a fright."

I heard him alright, and a pained smile crept across my lips. The glaring light from the ceiling bounced off of the pure white hospital walls, and the sharp, stinging stench of disinfectant caused my face to crumple. Gatsby reached forward at my obvious disgust—a misunderstanding, I suppose—and handed me a glass of water. I drank quickly, the cool, wetness of the water welcoming on my chapped lips.

"_I_ scared _you_, Gatsby? Now—come on, that's not fair. _You_ acted as if it were you who had been shot! You scared me."

"Alright, _alright_, Old Sport. We scared each other, I suppose. But all the same, I do wish you hadn't gone jumping in front of me like that. You could have died."

The mere fact that he cared was touching. It seemed to me, in that moment, where I was at my perhaps most vulnerable, something that made him all the more spectacular in my eyes. And I reached out and patted Gatsby on the shoulder, who chuckled weakly.

"You saved my life, Old Sport."

"I know, I know—and I'm glad I did. Very…_glad_."

"Glad?" He frowned. "I don't entirely understand. I—you look like death. Absolutely like death—and for what? Me? Old Gatsby? Why, Old Sport, I don't think I've ever done anything that would give you reason to risk your life. But you—you've stuck with me, this entire time. And that compliment—if I had died, I would have died knowing at least someone still cared, even if Daisy…"

"Old Sport, I—well, I don't know exactly, but…Daisy. It…wasn't Daisy who called, was it?"

I shook my head, his words, rushed and spilled, were obvious signs of nervousness. A conflicting feeling obviously tormented him, and I couldn't help but hope in that moment—as ridiculous as the notion seemed back then—that his emotions went beyond just caring. But Daisy—was it always to come back to her? I hoped he had forgotten, but Gatsby had kept her in his heart—or, at least, the idea of loving her—for five years and never once, as far as I am aware, laid eyes on another.

"No. But I'm sure she thought about it."

"Thinking isn't the same as doing," Gatsby rubbed a hand over his stubble, the other resting on his knee and sighed, "Old Sport."

"Thinking is almost doing," I argued back, my tone strung with bitter notes. "At least she thought about you at all. She couldn't have done it without thinking—same as I, couldn't have jumped without thinking first. Thinking leads to doing, and doing leads to…thinking, I suppose."

"Either way," I continued, "someone thought about you."

If he was touched by my attempt to reassure him, Gatsby made no signs of showing it. Instead he simply rose from the chair with his usual extravagance and strolled towards the window. He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it across his forehead, the beads of sweat now wiped away, and turned to me.

"Would you like the window open, Old Sport? It's the least I could do for you."

I nodded, my own forehead sticky with perspiration. "It's very...hot, so yes, I think that would be nice. Thanks."

"Ah, no worries Old Sport. If it's a comfort then I'm glad to help," he muttered, tugging the large, heavy glass window upwards so it would open. And once it was open he turned back to face me and leant against the open window, its cool, fresh breeze blowing the tufts of his hair about in some sort of a ridiculous fashion. And I laughed.

He did too, but his was weaker, considerably strained in a way that seemed to suggest he struggled. I gave him the most reassuring smile I could, in hopes that it would lighten his mood, release some of the tension he was feeling-but it didn't have that effect on him, and he looked away, outside.

The silence that followed served to remind me of lonelier times, when I would remain at home with little to do, little to think about and little to talk about. Yet when I moved and became Gatsby's neighbour, that everlasting loneliness that seemed almost unbearable soon ceased to be. In his castle, his gleaming, large halls of decadence, he was lonelier than I. All those parties he threw I thought, at first, that they were a way of maintaining a false consciousness; that he could delude himself into thinking he wasn't so alone in those halls, with all his finery and all his possessions-but he was just as lonely, even more so, as I. When I learned those parties were for Daisy, I remember by fist clenching under the table, my eyes straining to focus on Jordan Baker's face-anything to stop myself from thinking about Gatsby loving anyone else. In that selfish moment I knew I had no chance-or, so I thought. And so, slowly and terribly, I began to regret meeting the greatest man whom I had ever had the pleasure of meeting.

It was different though, as of now, I decided. He looked terribly gaunt as he stood by the window, his usual, healthy plumpness having faded. And I wondered if he had thinned because of Daisy, or because of me. Selfish, loving feelings hoped it was the latter; the other jumped to the unmistakable conclusion that it was because of Daisy.

Gatsby seemed to move from the window with such quickness, it almost felt like he was going to run away from something. He didn't run, however, but simply sat himself down by my side once more and looked upon me with what I was sure was reluctance.

"Alright, Old Sport, what's bothering you? It's so silent-and, yes, they said you wouldn't be speaking until maybe a week or so, but you are. And this silence is unnerving. I've had to have music playing all night and all day long, Old Sport, just so I could bear to be in that big ol' house of mine." He paused for a moment, as if he were going to say something else, but retreated back into his silence and sighed.

I pressed my lips together and tugged my legs from under the covers. "I'd rather the silence than the sound of screaming and fighting," I murmured, remembering the day Gatsby and Tom had stumbled towards each other, throwing punches, slaps, kicks-and the cries of Daisy as she watched the two men she once loved fight over her. "The silence isn't nearly as unnerving as that was, Gatsby-you ought to know."

"Did it frighten you, Old Sport?" he asked, inclining his head. The grip on his knee tightened, and he looked me squarely in the face, eyes softened.

"In a way I suppose it did." I nodded. "Yes, I suppose. I was surprised, more than anything, to see you act like that-especially in front of Daisy. I would have thought you would carry yourself with more...carelessness."

"-Yes," I said, nodding as if to confirm its truth. "Carelessness."

"Careless? Why'd you say that, Old Sport."

"Well, it's just-you seemed so confident, Gatsby, that she would leave Tom and renounce all feelings for him. I could see it in your face, the way you held yourself. I just-well, I suppose I thought you wouldn't throw yourself about like that. Silly, really."

He seemed to understand, in a way, what I meant and nodded with a look of resignation. His eyes seemed to droop slightly as I offered him a small, sincere smile, and Gatsby understood. And I felt bad for being so honest, suddenly deciding that it probably wasn't the best thing to say.

I peered down at my finger. They were pale, thin, and long, and I frowned. I was so much weaker, as was he, and we were both so alone. All we truly had was each other-because I knew, after asking about, that nobody but Gatsby had visited or even sent word. A paper that had been sitting by Gatsby's chair read: "NEIGHBOUR RISKS LIFE TO SAVE GATSBY", and my frown deepened. I wanted to be more than just the neighbour; calling me a friend wouldn't have hurt.

"Oh, you don't want to be looking at that old rubbish," Gatsby said, snatching up the paper from the floor and tucking it into his pocket. "Liars, that's what they all are, Old Sport. Liars-nothing more, and nothing less. They just want to make a quick buck, is all."

In a way I was glad he had changed the subject, but all the same, I still wanted to properly talk about things. But if that was how it was going to be, then so be it. I would, later on, be thankful that we never went further than that.

"If you say so, then alright. I guess I won't be touching any of those."

"Good," he smiled-sincerely, this time-and leant forward in his chair. "Because between you and me, Old Sport, those newspapers have been...well, fabricating things a little. You wouldn't really believe that Daisy did it, would you?"

"Oh, she did alright! And if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're trying to protect her, Gatsby-and _why_! Why would you want to protect someone like her? What did she ever do for you, Gatsby? Look where you are now; in a mess, a huge mess. You won't even be able to live in this city anymore."

"You'll have to move away," I persisted, forcing him to keep quiet. "Yes; and I'll miss you, but you'll have to do it. What else have you got here? The nurses have told me these past few days you've been sleeping here, by my bedside. Where's the house?"

In his eyes I could a whirlwind of emotions; a sort of concoction of pain, loathing and fear all mixed into one poisonous cocktail. The desire to take his hand into my bandaged one was strong, but I fought against it and turned my head away, wishing that I could undo what I had said. It was cruel of me; a bitter, cowardly thing to say-and all because I was jealous; jealous of Daisy, and jealous because even after all I had done, he would not love me still.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry," he repeated, sounding a little beaten-up. "Why-Nick, Old Sport, there's no reason to be sorry. I'm afraid I haven't been entirely honest with you. In fact, if anything, I do believe I'm going to be needing your influence, Old Sport. You have a knack for getting the truth from me."

**Nick.** It wouldn't be the first time he would use my first name, instead of 'Old Sport'. In months to come, after the storm had calmed and we were floating calmly against the waves, no rocks in sight, we would be entangled in a sort of embrace; loving, and more open. He would say Nick so many more times-but in this particular moment, I needed it most. He always seems to know when I need something most and says the most wonderful, truthful things when I need them. But in this particular moment, far behind any of that, it came as a surprise to hear him say it, and I could not help but gleam at the use of my name.

"You could say I have a proposition for you."

I sat upright at that. "A proposition? Say, it's not another business one, is it? I don't think I shall be working for a long, long time, Gatsby."

"Not at all," he replied, grinning. "I'd like you to stay with me, Old sport."

I knew that in the silence that followed, that anything could happen. It might be too late again. I might have missed my chance. He may have found someone else, someone new. But I smiled, accepted, and extended my hand, whatever the outcome.


	2. Chapter 2

We drove to Gatsby's old house in a dark green car. Gatsby insisted on sitting with me in the back; his legs propped up on the other seat, whilst his chauffeur drove-at Gatsby's command-with great care. I noticed he entered the car with a certain jitteriness, almost as if the great machine was a monster, all teeth and claws, ready to snatch him up. The command to drive slowly wasn't new, I supposed, and wasn't on my behalf either-although Gatsby clearly wanted me to think so, as he flashed his white teeth at me and shook my shoulder. If anything, this were all for him. And I understood exactly in that moment, as Gatsby looked at the metal almost feverishly, that he were afraid. I could have made the brash decision to tuck an arm around his shoulders or to reach out and offer him a reassuring pat, but my capabilities were limited by the stitches; painful, small shoots of pain running along my side.

"We'll just say goodbye to the place, Old Sport, and then we'll be on our way," Gatsby confirmed, pressing shaky fingers to his lips. "No need to worry about any of your belongings; we'll have new clothes, Nick. New books for the both of us, and writing utensils for you. How'd you like that, Old Sport?"

I smiled gradually, and affectionately. "There's something so dull and lifeless about this city to me now. I think I'll be glad to go."

"Oh... really? What makes you say that?" Gatsby's smile faltered; he'd had his hopes and dreams placed in this one city, the green light still a vivid flash in his memory, and here I was, tastelessly attacking it.

"No, no-I couldn't, Jay. I just couldn't bash it. It's meant a lot to you," I muttered, suddenly aware of myself. "You built yourself here, made a name, made a fortune-and here I am, bashing everything you did. This city built you, and I'm tearing it apart bit by bit with my bitterness."

As the car turned a sharp corner Jay gripped onto his seat for dear life, knuckles white with fear, eyes widened and his brain reeling. He feared many things and our fears would bring us together, like two boats lost at sea, fighting against the bleak current. And when the corner was far behind us, and we raced towards West Egg to bid our final goodbyes to the void, wasteless land we once loved.

Gatsby turned to me once again as we drew closer to the trees, his face now considerably calmer, like a child after its mother has convinced them that all will be well again. "Now look here, Old Sport-I want honesty, and nothing but honesty from you. Could you do that for me, Old Sport?"

He was nervous, I could tell. He seemed to use that nickname-although it was more my name by now-when nervous, and he had this odd little habit of looking towards me, and then quickly jerking his head away again. I could only smile. I have always found him at his most endearing when nervous, and jittery. He stumbles across words like a toddler learning to walk; his eyes flitting from left to right, and then back again.

"Alright," I nodded, "The truth is, that I can't stand this place now. It's so lifeless, now I know the truth about everyone and everything. It turns out that everything was just one big lie-and they fired me, Jay. I was planning to move away soon, anyway. There's ghosts here, haunting me, and I suppose I wanted to get away as quickly as possible-at least, until the incident."

"Hold on there, Old Sport! You say it like this city has been nothing but trouble for you! I say it hasn't been that bad-not in the least. Are you sure you aren't just...sick, of everything and everyone? We all suffer bouts of it, and maybe being cooped up in that hospital all those months has ruined you."

I looked away from him. Somehow I couldn't bear to look into those eyes, or to look at his face. "Corruption and greed lured me in, Gatsby. I became consumed-consumed, just like the rest of you. Only I've woken up." Frowning, I turned back. "I wish _you_ could wake up. I wish you could see there's more to life than beauty and material wealth."

"I-I...well, I don't quite know what to say. Really. Has it really been that bad?"

Without so much as a smile, or a frown-or anything, for that matter-to confirm my emotions, I confided us to the awkwardness of silence. A blanket of emptiness and worry that shrouded us both, and consumed us for the rest of the journey. I kept my vision focused on the blur of the trees and vast scenery as we passed; Jay, on the other hand, was nervous, and out of the corner of my eye I could see his old habit of looking and then away again reappearing. The driver only looked at us both in the mirror and away again.

I wondered what he thought, and if he knew how I felt.


	3. Chapter 3

The house barely looked like Gatsby's at all; tall, and abandoned, the sound of ghostly laughter drifting through hallways, with not even a speck of confetti from all those parties to be seen. It was almost as if no one had ever lived in that great house, all those parties' just vacant memories of ours—and probably, for Gatsby, haunting as they haunted me. All those parties he had thrown in hopes of Daisy wondering in—and now what where they, but a distant piece of his extravagant life. Perhaps I was focusing too much on those parties, and not enough on all that laughter, the good times we had shared, but the memory of those parties and those careless people who took advantage of his hospitality rang loud and clear in my memory—and almost, if it were not for the pool, far louder than perhaps anything else that had occurred in the empty halls.

Gatsby, if he noticed my discomfort, didn't bother to say anything. Instead, he walked towards the open doors that lead out to the pool and with one, angry movement slammed them shut. The breeze no longer tugged at the curtains and they fell to the floor, limp and lifeless as everything else in the city was. I wondered in that moment, whether it was stupidity or a sting of bravery that made me consider it, if I should venture out into the pool; to stand by its side and stare into it, the waters tarnished with my body floating lifelessly as Jay held me close, begging me to stay with him. But it seemed that Gatsby had had enough of that room, and that memory, for he beckoned me with his hand and made his descent up the stairs, and closer to his bedrooms.

It seemed odd that we should go there of all places in his vast, and endless house; but Gatsby seemed instant on it, like we couldn't leave unless we bid goodbye to those rooms in particular. I knew something about them was special—in one way or another, but mostly reasons regarding Daisy. To think that Daisy had laid sprawled out on his bed while he made love to her, while I was so innocently and unknowingly sat next door, drinking whisky and reading, sent shivers down my spine. The thought was tasteless, and wrong, but I could not help but go there.

"Take a look at this, Old Sport," he said, gesturing to his empty bedroom, "Just look at how… _big_ this room was. And all this time, I never even remembered what it was like to have an empty room. But you—well, your little house…tell me, Nick, how many rooms did it have in it?"

I blinked, surprised at his babbling. It was almost as if he were stuck for words, stumbling across his thoughts and other things, forcing himself to talk because he simply couldn't stand the silence. He was not so used to silence.

"Four," I eventually replied, not looking at him or anywhere else; just the floor, and only the floor. "Yes, I think that's about right. There was the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom and my bedroom. Do you remember I told you I often had to eat, standing in the kitchen? There wasn't much room for a dining room, or table. Not compared to here, anyway."

Gatsby nodded, beckoning me closer with his usual hand. "And that's the thing, Old Sport. I'm not used to this—this, space,this…emptiness. I've always made sure my rooms were filled with things, you see; people—servants, guests, friends—and belongings."

"But you're used to this, aren't you Old Sport? Not having much room or things in them. I-I'm not trying to be rude, or boast, but I don't know if I can bear to leave this place."

The walls and everything about this room was stripped bare—secrets, I had heard whispered in this room and had seen, disappeared before my very eyes. To think that someone else would soon be moving in, would soon be living in this house was almost inconceivable. I couldn't see anyone else but Jay Gatsby walking through these halls, and I understood.

"Come on now, Gatsby. I don't think standing here is doing you much good, is it? What's happened here is just one big bad memory, for you—for the both of us, actually. And I'm sorry." I started to walk away from Gatsby, out of the room and down the stairs. Away from all those memories; some treacherous, and others kind, I felt better in myself. We just simply didn't belong there anymore.

At that time, for all I knew, Gatsby probably lingered in that room for as long as he could manage. Months later, when he would confide in me, he would tell me that from his great window he stood and watched me as I paced up and down the long stretch of path. He would tell me that in that moment he was forced to remember the almost instantaneous realisation which had been brought to him after I was shot. Something, to this very day, he feels ashamed of for being ashamed of it. If I _had_ known in that moment, I probably would have caught him up at the window and exchanged silent words with him, as we often did. I wonder what expression he had on his face—was it unreadable? Perplexed?—and I wonder if he watched me like the way he used to watch Daisy.

* * *

"We're going to Chicago, Old Sport. I found a house there—not as big as my old one on West Egg, and not nearly as expensive, but it'll have to do. It's got a lovely garden; enough space to keep a horse or two in." He looked across, the wind blowing in his face, and I felt the warmth of his arm as he placed it behind my shoulders. "Would you like that, Old Sport? A horse?"

I nodded, slowly and affectionately. I had not ridden a horse since I was a child and no doubt my skills were rusty, but Jay's smile seemed to reassure me that I was going to manage just fine. He always managed to reassure me with that dazzling smile.

"If we get a horse, you're getting one too—you hear me?! I don't want to be the only one looking like a fool, because I can't ride."

"You can't ride, Old Sport? No worries, I have a friend—he was a champion jockey; won over twenty races in his time. I could get him to teach you."

Silent laughter slipped through my lips, and I pressed a hand to my hat as the wind threatened to tear it off my head. "Why on earth can't it be… _you_, Jay? Are you too chicken to teach me?"

"Chicken, Old Sport? Why—I never…!" He gave me that dazzling smile once again and looked up at the sky as a plane passed above us both, a twinkle in his eye. "No, I thought you'd rather have a professional teach you, someone who knows their stuff; but alright. I'll teach you if you want."

I nodded, said my thanks and let my thoughts drift someplace else, someplace equally as pleasant as that moment. A small smile played on my lips and I couldn't help but shake my head and laugh; I felt married to him, in that very odd moment. He treated me and regarded me as someone so high up in his life, that I felt he would get down on one knee and propose to me—and I wished he would, too. I knew almost everything about Jay Gatsby. Far more than anyone else—especially Daisy, so, where did that put me? If he regarded me so highly, as much as he does now, back then, then I supposed he did always…love me. And what a thought that was! I threw back my head and laughed harder, the wind tugging at my clothes like an impatient lover; and Jay, beside me, looked across and our eyes met. I could have kissed him.

"What's so funny?"

"_Nothing!_ Just…you, Gatsby, is all. "

He looked puzzled and amused, all at the same time. "Old Sport, come on now; no need to be shy! Just tell me what was so funny. I don't recall telling you a joke."

"Nothing," I persisted, tossing a grin in his direction. "_Trust me_, it's nothing at all. I just thought about something funny."

"Care to share?"

I shook my head, and gazed someplace else. "Not right now, Gatsby. Maybe another time."

Gatsby sank back, having accepted the fact I wasn't going to tell him, and settles for staring up at the blazing bright sky. I was proud of myself for that journey; I had managed to keep my eyes off him for the rest of it, and almost forgot his presence. Peace, for the first time in forever.


	4. Chapter 4

Our new house was the beginning of many new and wonderful things. Somehow I thought that Jay would rather prefer to drift ceaselessly, like a boat lost amongst the waves, with nothing to hold him back, or to anchor him down. He was so restless since the incident, the notion of sitting still or staying somewhere too long unbearable; as if a different man had taken his place. I felt almost like I was that anchor—but it seemed, to me, that Gatsby wanted me with him. And together we would walk those long stretches of halls, together we would sit and dine in the evenings in the comfort of fine furniture; and together, we would stroll through the beautiful gardens, joking and chatting as if we had known each other forever. There was something about him, when he looked at you so tentatively. It's almost like he's known you before, forever, even.

It was hot. Undeniably, and almost unbearably, hot. Our hair stuck to our heads in sticky tresses, and Gatsby was even more restless than usual. The vast land that stretched out ahead of us sought to remind us of a long road; a new, exciting travel—but it seemed Gatsby was inundated by the heat and instead preferred to take a quiet stroll inside, to where he insisted that "the halls are much cooler, Old Sport." He motioned for me to join him coolly, so, so coolly, and I followed like the lovesick puppy I was.

The colossal affair that Gatsby once called home could even have been considered ugly in comparison to this smaller, simpler establishment. The gaudy, often blinding décor of Gatsby's was something I was once amazed by, but since then things had changed and I sought out a simpler life, with less to worry about and less to fear—although why I thought I could live a life like that with Gatsby, I will never know. My own previous house had been an absolute eyesore—but it had been my eyesore, and I missed it. Gatz house, as Jay now referred to it, was considerably kinder. You could find someone easily due to its two floors, although large, and practical five bedrooms. Jay and I would not need five bedrooms, or the large dining hall in which he had first expressed ideas for a party, because nobody was going to visit us. We were the unknowns; preferred to be left unknown, and wanted to be unknown by those of society who had cast us out. And, besides, I had decided that Gatsby's partying days were over; too much drink and too much consumption—of people, partying, and the wild, rich lifestyle he had grown used to—was a danger, and would continue to be a danger in the ever increasing hostility of the world.

Just an hour after Gatsby and I had reached the new house, we bade the old chauffer farewell, along with Gatsby's temporary car, and then took ourselves to sit in the calm, beautiful garden. Two wicker chairs were positioned spectacularly by a large apple tree, with a large bottle of whisky and two tumblers sat neatly beside them. There were no servants to be seen, but Jay assured me, with his usual gracious way, that he had dismissed them for the rest of the day and they were to have tomorrow off, too. I supposed he wished for some privacy and, forgetting I meant something, I found it odd considering he was so hell-bent on being surrounded by people of all sorts. Gatsby said this was a permanent move, but I didn't believe it—despite the fact that I had no sight into his heart completely, but I felt that Gatsby would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence and rich colour of life he had once owned.

Our chairs were almost uncomfortably close, and as he sat and unbuttoned his jacket as it was his custom to, our elbows jutted into one another and the silent air was broken by a string of silent apologies. He then reached out and poured us a fair amount to drink, before bringing the whisky to his lips and downing it.

"Careful there, Jay. I want to go to town to-morrow. I don't fancy having to drag you there."

He laughed; a familial, almost husky laugh, and placed his tumbler on the garden table with a flourish. "There, Old Sport," he grinned, almost triumphant. "No more whisky for Gatsby—at least, not until after this hour is over. I'll drink it in moderation."

"You, do something in moderation?" I laughed, disbelief almost overbearing in my tone. "You couldn't ever do anything in moderation, Gatsby!"

"That so? Why—since when have you been able to hold your liquor? Na—ah, Nick. I remember that many a party you would spent most of the night sprawled out on my sofa. Why, I had to send someone to sit and keep an eye on you, lest some lady—or fella—get any funny ideas."

As he made the final remark my once shimmering gleam had ceased to be, and my eyes lowered to stare almost frostily at the glass I was holding. Suddenly the taste of bitter whisky did not appeal, and I frowned into my tumbler.

The topic regarding my sexuality was always such a fragile one, considering it had felt almost so recently that I had had my epiphany. Jay Gatsby, while he was not the first man I had found myself feeling a shameful attraction to, was quite probably the one and only man who could be exempt from my denial. In one way or another, although quite unsure of myself and my capabilities back then, I was almost ready to acknowledge the truth of my identity. Ironically, it was only Jay Gatsby who could extract the truth—and that was not to be for a while, yet.

Gatsby offered to pour me another drink, having plucked it from my hands while I must have become distracted with my thoughts. I shook my head, having found myself too nervous to talk, and simply tilted my head towards the red sky.

"Something I said, Old Sport?"

Jerking, I lurched forward and hastily shook my head. "No, no—nothing at all, Jay. I'm just tired, is all. Tired and lethargic from travelling."

He looked at me, as if to say he understood, and leaned across and slapped me on the back. The gesture didn't hurt like Tom's, but still; I had to grin and bear it, for the sake of being civil and in order to keep peace. I could hardly disrupt such a serene scene. Jay and I—we were one with nature, just existing, nothing more.

"I'm tired too, Old Sport. Let's just finish our drinks and go up to our rooms, shall we? We can go into town to-morrow. I've got a car, and a chauffeur who'll pick us up 'bout eleven."

I nodded. "That'll be nice, Jay. I'd like that—all of that. Thank you."

"No worries, Old Sport. It's the least I could do."

* * *

To finally rest, was a godsend. Jay had brought me fifteen brand spanking new pairs of silk pyjamas—from England, he insisted—and had placed them all at the end of my colossal bed. It was the type of bed little girls red about in fairy tales; king-size, and with an extremely comfortable mattress paired with the finest cotton sheets I had ever had the pleasure to lie on. And as I lay on the bed, I reflected on things said—and not said—between Jay and I.

He had sat with me in my room, nervously twiddling his thumbs and playing with his ring in an almost petulant manner. His face was unreadable, to me, and I could barely tell what he was thinking. Yet despite his obvious anxieties, Jay sat on my bed with me and talked and talked the hours away. We discussed literature; our forthcoming trip to town, and all the wonderful, ever-expansive opportunities Chicago could offer two "fine men like us".

The history of that rather spectacular summer really begins on the day after, when Jay and I would venture out to town and sit, revelling in our new-found glory. Eyes would stare, people would whisper, but there was something about the way Jay Gatsby held himself that seemed to state he just didn't care. And neither did I.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thanks very much for reading.**

**As usual, comments, ect. keep me motivated! **

* * *

The next morning my head felt groggy and my eyes hurt. In the sweltering summer heat I found myself writhing beneath the sheets until I became a cocoon, unable to sleep properly or find proper peace of mind knowing that somewhere, perhaps closer than we thought, Daisy Buchanan was lounging on her divan. And that meant the inexplicable truth: the universe was fighting, fighting hard to keep Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan together. It was those thoughts that would have soured my morning, had I not remembered some advice my Finn offered me in broken English two days before the shooting.

I soon found myself stumbling, half-asleep and half-torn between thoughts, towards the great dining table. On it laid an assortment of fine, delicious breakfast options—including eggs, meats, dairies, toast. A poor man's heart would have dropped. And I leapt upon the meal like a ravenous lion, heaping spoonful after spoonful of apricots, peaches—and other fine fruits I had never seen the likes of—onto my plate. Somewhere, from behind me I suppose, Gatsby laughed deeply, as if he truly were amused, and tapped ash into his ash-tray.

"Hungry? Doesn't surprise me, Old Sport. Now—what was it your Finn used to make you for breakfast, hm? Just eggs?" He leaned forward, and I believed in that moment that he was going to slap me across the back, but instead he picked an apricot from my plate and held it up to the light, before popping it in his mouth in the most un-Gatsby fashion I had ever seen.

Suddenly aware that my mouth was open, slack-jawed, and my eyes were wide with shock at the sight of his pink tongue licking the juice from his lips, I jerked my head away in a motion I deemed completely inconspicuous and blushed. He had caught me, unguarded, and seemed to revel in this new found glory—if not while looking at me a little strangely, of course.

"Are you going to answer me, or shall I have to get Bill here"—he gestured to Bill with a sincere look, and then back to me—"to extract the answer from you, Old Sport?"

I knew he was only joking and with a half-baked smile placed my fork back on the plate. His eyes watched my every move; as if he was afraid I might do something reckless, and looked upon me in a way I had never brought myself to notice before.

Finally, I answered: "I barely ever ate breakfast, Gatsby. Sometimes I woke up too late and didn't even have time to get dressed properly. Other times—well, if I woke up too early I would convince myself that it was too early to indulge."

"There'll be none of that here—you hear me, Old Sport? You need to get your strength back up, and the doctor told me food—nourishment—was the perfect way to get you back on your feet." He hesitated after his abrupt and almost desperate words; laid out in front of me his concerns with just one simple look, before taking a final drag on his cigarette and stubbing it out.

"We're, as some might say, 'partners in crime' now, Nick. I'll have to take better care of you, lest you decide you'll run away. Because we—well, we have to stick together now, don't we? Together. Yes, hm. I like the idea of that."

I paused to offer him a fleeting glance, an insight into my heart, but he seemed to disregard it as another sudden bout of nervousness hit him and he seemed only capable of leaning back in the chair, and to sit and to observe me. I broke the silence just seconds later, deflated, almost, and objected to his new ideal.

"Partners in crime?" I repeated, my words heavy, thick with distaste. "The only crime here, Gatsby, is what happened to you. What foul dust floated through the air, and tried to corrupt you."

And then, leaning closer with an apologetic look, I added, "Call us what you want, if you will, but I find the name...uncomfortable. Sorry Gatsby."

"Nonsense!" he cried, almost too quickly. "No, no; I understand completely, Old Sport. Suppose I wasn't thinking, hm? But enough of that talk. Town today, isn't it?"

I nodded. "That's what you said, Gatsby. And to-morrow—ah, you said maybe to-morrow we could go and visit that jockey friend of yours. Phillip—that was his name, wasn't it?"

"I said that? And did I consult you before making these plans?"

"In a way, I suppose."

Gatsby frowned. In his face I could almost see the cogs inside of his vast and limitless mind turning and whirring as they tried to piece together the moments from the day before. I could have assisted him, prompted, even, but he looked so determined to remember—despite his vast and considerable consumption of alcohol from the night before.

His butler, our butler, moved to pick up the plates, but Gatsby excused him. He was perhaps the kindest man I knew when it came to treating servants; no matter what colour they were, he would always regard them with the same sort of respect. And I admired him even more for that. And then Gatsby, in his typical, almost flamboyant manner, stood from the chair and walked towards the grand window, hands in pockets. He seemed to stare out at the long stretch of grass, which would soon be home to two new steeds, with a great deal of resignation. It was one of those moments in which you felt like you were an imposter, imposing on a man's most private thoughts; but if I were to move, or make the sign that I wished to, Gatsby would have stopped me. There was something different about him now, something that seemed to scream "I need you, Old Sport".

So I stayed, finished the rest of my fruits in silence, and joined Gatsby by the window. The hot, sweaty scent of old cologne filled my nostrils as I came closer, but I did not care. There was something so familial, so...warm about that scent. Something so Gatsby.

"Look at that, Old sport. Look—over there, by the tree. D o you see it?" The thing in question was a large truck. Attached to it, with rigs and chains of sorts, was a fountain. A great, colossal structure that I feared would probably fill most of the garden space.

Two men in overalls were hanging for dear life onto it, anxious, fleeting glances passed in our direction—but Jay was magnificent, and kind, as always, and offered the two men a signal of warmth, something that seemed to so effortlessly reassure them they were doing a fine job. He always thought people did a fine job.

"Well?" He turned back to me, draped an arm so carelessly round my shoulders, and I ached a little. "Old Sport, say something! What do you think? Isn't it fine?"

"Fine indeed," I confirmed, nodding sharply. "I think that's the finest fountain I have ever seen—finer, I think, than the one in your garden at West Egg."

"That's right, Old sport. And those two men—" he pointed to the men in overalls, nodding at them as if I hadn't already noticed them, and watched them silently for a moment, before concluding: "They're doing a fine job, wouldn't you say? A fine, fine job."

I said. And I saw. I couldn't help but also notice how his old, jittery habits of nervousness came flooding back. He called me Old Sport more often than he usually did, looked at me and then away again multiple times, and seemed insistent on having my reaction, or my confirmation, to everything.

I believe, in Gatsby's mind, he sought out confirmation—acceptance, more than anything else. He seemed to hang onto your every word so desperately when you complimented him, in his eyes a sort of look that begged you to agree, begged you to accept him, begged you to think the same way; and his tongue would dart in and out of his mouth as he wet his lips.

"When do you think they'll have it fitted?" I asked, knowing it would be better to speak than endure another of our long, sometimes awkward, silences.

"Phillip—that man there, with the straw hat—says sometime around to-night, Old Sport. Why, do you have something in mind that you would like to get done?"

The next part wasn't entirely true. More than anything, I would have rather sat amongst the shade with a tumbler in my hand and a book on my knee, but in that moment he'd caught me—vulnerable, and almost answerless, I shyly ducked my head and rubbed the back of my neck. I could barely think of anything to say, and came up with a poor, poor excuse: "I'm thinking of taking a walk."

"A walk? Why, Old Sport, we've got the rest of our days—I can assure you, because we're living here permanently. Yes, we are!—and one night without walking isn't going to kill you." And then, as if suddenly shy, he removed his arm from my shoulders and swept up the fallen strands of hair that fell pathetically by his face and added, "—Not that I have any objections to it, of course."

I laughed, weakly. It seemed the only appropriate thing to do at that moment. We were both still prone to bouts of sudden, violent shyness—and this was one of them. The large ring was twisted once, then twice, then so often I could barely count. His eyes seem to dim, the once bright blue sapphires having now faded along with his excitement.

I could stand it no longer, and retreated towards the door, to silence; up towards my haven, where I could no longer be affected by such a thing as Gatsby. He seemed to notice, though, and followed me to the stairs without much thought.

He stopped me on the fifth step. I remember his touch clear as day; his grip on my arm, the pleading look in his eyes as his hand fell away and to waver at his side for a few seconds, before he raised it again to grip my shirt, and I remember the small sound that slipped through Gatsby's quivering lips. I also remember that, at this wholly unexpected turn of events, in which Gatsby seemed to be pleading for my company, I had turned a light shade of beetroot and was rocking on the balls of my feet; one hand clinging to the railing for dear life, and the other swiftly tucking my unruly tresses back to their rightful position.

"Jay, I—what's—what…" I found myself incapable of denoting any possible emotions I may have had, and was totally and utterly devoid.

He was just as confused as I, and realised that perhaps the hastiness of his expressions and movements had shocked me. He slipped away from both the stairs and himself, down, into darker thoughts, and pressed a hand to his sweaty forehead.

"Jay?"

"Oh, it's nothing Old Sport. Nothing at all. Just the heat, I'm sure." He remained standing where he was for a few seconds more, his face currently carrying a look of shock, before turning on his heels and sharply walking in the direction of his study.

"Gatsby, are you sure? If something is wrong, then perhaps I could help?"

"No, no, no; Old Sport, you've done enough already," Gatsby murmured, waving me away with his left hand, while the right tended to his forehead. "Just the heat—like I said. No need to worry about me, you've done more than enough of that."

And so I stood, watching as the flustered and perplexed Gatsby scurried inside the safety of his study, where he knew I would not dare to enter—at least, not without knocking or his permission—with the uttermost look of consternation in my eyes, and on my lips.

* * *

At five-to-eleven Gatsby emerged from his study with the look of a man who has just seen something horrifying, or has perhaps realised something has been wrong with his entire life, and walked past me—but not without, might I add, a quick nod in my direction. Gatsby, even when taking a funny turn, could never be rude. Always earnest, always sincere—that is what Gatsby was, and why he is exempt from my disgust.

I myself had emerged from a bath, freshly shaven and smelling of new cologne, but this time with an air of undesired anxiety. I tried to behave as if nothing had happened, but as I walked through those marble doors the unmistakable tug on my shirt startled me, and I walked, stiffly, and quickly towards the car. The memory was so startling, so strong, that I feared it was to haunt me for days to come—but nothing, nothing would compare to what later occurred.

Our car journey was not as awkward as I initially prepared myself for. After ten minutes of puffing contently on his cigarette, Gatsby leaned in closer to me and held up his golden case—an offer of apology, a gesture so sincere, that I could not refuse. So I plucked one from the case and then, with surprising intimacy, Jay lit the cigarette for me with his own one and then leaned back, grinning against the cushioned seat.

"When we get into town, Old Sport, we'll go to the restaurant and grab a bite to eat—just the two of us, too. No one else to bother us, and absolutely no businesses propositions at the table, I promise you."

I laughed in jest, flicking ash carefully onto the road. "I'm glad, Gatsby. You know how I hate business propositions at the dinner table!"

"Yes, yes," he grinned, draping an arm around my shoulders, "You made that fact quite known, as I recall, last luncheon. You needn't worry, though; I don't think I shall be making any business connections for a long time, Old Sport."

We had no friends in Chicago, no vast, limitless connections of whom we could bump into and recognise instantaneously. Instead, we sought to be quiet, seeking the solace of our own company. I got the feeling that Jay was wary around business now, anyhow, and the bitter aftertaste of my failed venture still reeked in the back of my mind. Jay and I, we weren't made for business, it seemed—at least not in the overbearing corporate world.

And I laughed a little too much at this thought, embarrassment tinging my face when I could eventually bring myself together—but Gatsby, oh, he didn't seem to care! As I recall, he merely chuckled along and puffed away happily on his cigarette. We were so content, I could have fallen asleep. Even his nerves regarding the car journey soon ceased to be; within ten minutes we had discussed fine whisky, art, furniture, new décor for our rooms—and Jay even seemed to be considering looking for job.

"I want to be an honest man, Old Sport. To build myself up respectfully, you know? None of this Wolfsheim business will ever happen again, I assure you."

"That's admirable," I said, trying to sound as sincere as one possibly could. "Completely and utterly admirable. Perhaps I could look for a job to-morrow."

He raised a delicate brow, cocking his head as he studied my features. "To-morrow, Old Sport? Have you forgotten that we're supposed to visit Philip? I've already told him about you. You've made quite the impression on him."

"I have?"

"Of course, of course—now, why wouldn't you?" Gatsby paused, as if he were thinking carefully about what to say. Something about him seemed to scream uncertainty, a sort of wavering preventing him from saying what he felt really needed to be said. Eventually, he swallowed thickly and regarded me with a feigned, strained smile.

"You're a remarkable man, Old Sport. Truly remarkable. I'm lucky to have a …friend like you, you know. Any man would be."

"Me, remarkable? I've never heard of such whimsical thought!"

He looked me in the eye then, closely and intently, almost as if he were going to lean in closer and do the unspeakable—but instead of doing that, he patted me on the knee and tugged the cigarette from my mouth, before plucking his own from his grinning lips and threw them both over the edge. I thought then, truly, that he was going to kiss me. But he didn't. It was another false pretence, something that left me red-faced and anxious.

"Yes," he muttered, leaning perhaps a little too close. "You're rather something, aren't you, Old Sport?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes:**

**Thanks for all the views, ect.**

**I think you'll like this chapter. ;)**

* * *

**T**he greatly lit table shone brightly, an overbearing sort of gleam that blinded your vision and produced a sharp, stinging sensation in your head. Gatsby ordered that they take the candles away; he could not bear them, and nor could he bear to sit and have his vision corrupted when he so much wanted to sit and talk with me. He didn't say any more after that, but we've always been oddly quiet in intimate situations, and I understood, by the way his eyes held mine, that he regarded me as someone close to him. I don't think words could have done that, somehow.

Lunch was a fine affair. Jay ordered the two of us two fine, vintage bottles of wine and had a large platter of seafood's and meats brought to us—a sharing starter, to which my eyes hungrily and nervously scanned over. After we had eaten that, careful not to have filled ourselves before our next dish, we both ordered the same dish of lobster. I got the feeling that Jay wasn't hungry, particularly from the way he so nervously grabbed his ring and twisted it in that old habit of his. Whatever preoccupied his mind was obviously a very pressing matter; he could barely look at me, let alone anyone else, and gave a resigned, constant stare to the ground, as if he were studying very closely something he'd found lurking by his feet.

He picked at the lobster he'd barely touched for a few moments more, indisposed, before reaching in his pocket to remove a gold cigarette case. My eyes barely glanced at his hands for but a moment, but what I saw were two hands nervously, clumsily, fumbling the case in a fashion almost ridiculous. The corners of my mouth could not help but twitch into a small smile; it was almost endearing to watch his face contort into a mixture of irritation, anxiety, and tension. But we could not sit in silence all lunch. Gatsby had expressed such enthusiasm, that I was surprised to see him acting so—very nearly surprised, anyhow, and tore myself away from the food long enough to offer him a glance of reassurance.

"What's wrong, Gatsby?"

I startled him. He dropped the gold case on the floor, spilling his cigarettes everywhere, and as we both stumbled to our feet to pick them up, a waiter ran over for us so we didn't have to. Awkwardly, our eyes met, and I forced a smile.

When the case was returned and Gatsby gave the man his warm regards, we both settled ourselves into the thick blanket of silence. I did not, however, want to remain resigned to this and bashfully poured Jay another glassful of wine—a friendly gesture, sincere in every manner, and said: "Funny. You're never usually this quiet. Something on your mind?"

"On my mind, Old Sport?" he repeated with startling speed, "Why, there's always something on my mind. Good things, bad things—a whole lot of things. Nothing to worry about, anyhow."

"Are you...sure, Gatsby?"

One of the windows was ajar and blew in a nearby curtain, along with a few stray strands of Jay's hair. His eyes fluttered about the room restlessly, and he pressed a sweaty, nervous hand to the strands of hair before tucking them back into place.

"It's such a fine place here. Don't you think, Old Sport?"

"Very," I agreed, "but they could have done with a lot less lighting. I don't see why they need so much. It is summer, after all, and I do believe the sun is still working."

He laughed as if I had said something very funny. I couldn't tell if it was insincere, or forced, but regardless he had the decency to laugh and lit the cigarette with certain swiftness. He puffed on it for a few seconds, before taking it from his mouth and turning back to me politely.

"Tell me about your summer's, Nick. I want to hear everything. You've already heard so much about mine, and my life—why, I'm getting bored of my own voice."

I told him about Chicago's notoriously vibrant summers, and how when I was a boy I would run along the streets with my kite, and could spend hours lounging coolly by the swimming pool. I spoke of how my mother would always make fresh lemonade—the best kind, better than our cook's—and would always have a bucket of ice sat at her side. He seemed greatly interested; his eyes would flicker gently as he listened, eyelashes fluttering against his tanned skin, and his lips would twitch into a smile every now and again as I became more colourful and excitable with my explanations.

By the end of it, Gatsby had drunk his second glass of wine and was smiling like a fool, as if he wanted to hear all the things I had to say in the world. Gatsby laughed some more, thanked me for the tales, and then breathlessly said: "You're swell at telling stories, Nick. Why couldn't you have written books, and gotten them published? You say such beautiful things."

I looked towards him. My eyes flickered from his face to his hands, which were now nervously fiddling with his ring. His face seemed to have gone red, almost like a beetroot, and he reached for another bottle of wine and poured himself some more. He drank the liquid quickly, as if it was merely water, and I gulped down the rest of my own.

His face was gorgeous, and lovely, with bright things in it. His bright blue eyes seemed to sparkle with such vigour—one that Jay Gatsby had not possessed for a long time—and he coyly seemed to regard me through those eyes. He had bright eyes, a passionate mouth, but it all seemed to have faded when he realised what he had let slip through his lips. And I found myself stunned, lost for words.

"To tell you the truth, Old Sport, I'm terribly bored of this place," Gatsby subsequently murmured, "Terribly so. And it is so—hot, wouldn't you say? How about we get the bill and go."

"But Gatsby, we haven't even-!"

"I feel ill," he interjected, waving down a nearby waiter, "So ill."

I sat patiently while he exchanged words with the waiter. He would glance in my direction every now and again, but I pretended not to notice. His illness was feigned, put on, brought on by a spur of frightening anxiety and a rush of terrifying emotions. Something, whatever it was, was bothering him and seemed to drift restlessly around the room, hiding in the dark corners, creeping around our legs and almost suffocating Gatsby.

Suddenly, as if a terrible fever had struck him, he rose from the chair, gave the waiter a large sum of money and rushed from the room in a fashion so hurried, I only saw a blur.

I was left standing by my own chair, my expression hurt, almost pained. From around the room people leaned across tables and uttered not-so silent gossip: "I do-_oo_ believe that was Gatsby, and there—that man there, who he ran from-he's his accomplice." "Nick Carraway, you say? Why—y, I've heard a rumour that _he's_ the one who slept with that po-oor woman, and that in a jealous rage Gatsby ran her over!" "Aren't those two just the _funniest_ chaps you've ever seen? My, _my_!"

Hurt, and angered, I picked up my coat and decided to take a walk along the streets of Chicago. Somehow I thought Gatsby would recoil at my presence, and that it would do nothing to help the situation.

* * *

At precisely 3:05 PM, I arrived back at our shared residence with dubious expectation. My feet hurt from the length I had walked, my hair stuck to my head in sticky, sweaty tresses, and I could not have felt any worse. If Gatsby saw me walk up the drive from the cab I took, he made no movement from inside the house. A curtain from one of the French windows twitched, but it was simply a servant, wondering where their master had gone and who was at the door.

"Where you been, Mr. Carraway?" the woman asked, ushering me in. "We all been worryin' 'bout you—including Mr. Gatsby, sir! Oh-ohh, he was beside himself with worry. Made me check all the lines in the house, in case you might have called."

I followed behind the plump woman, who seemed to hold herself with certain proudness, a large, twitching nose pointed in the air as if she were precariously balancing something on it. She led me to Gatsby's study. The door, large and oak, made a hollow sort of sound when she knocked on it, and when there was no reply she tutted, rolled her eyes and cried ecstatically: "Why-yy, , _sir_! Nick Carraway has returned! Found him loitering by the door. Poor fella' is awfully thirsty."

The door opened within seconds of my name being mentioned, to reveal a Gatsby I had not seen since Daisy refused his proposal to tell Tom she never loved him. His usually sparking demeanour sagged, as if it had completely ceased to be, and was replaced by terrifying consternation. His eyes seemed to have dimmed, only brightening for a second as I forced a smile, and his fingers twisted the ring with clumsy anxiety. He looked drawn, ill, even, and I could not help but want to take the man in my arms and hold him. But that would be wrong—highly illogical, too.

"Nick." Gatsby let his eyes roam over my body once, twice, and then on the third time he turned to the servant girl and waved her away—but not, of course, without his usual sincerity; a flash of teeth as he grinned, and a soft "thank you".

"Why'd you leave?" I asked shortly, my eyes roaming about the space behind him.

He stopped fidgeting, placed a hand politely on my shoulder and gently pushed me inside his study. "To tell you the truth, Old Sport, I haven't entirely been feeling myself," he said, his tone suggesting that was the only explanation I needed. And then, it seemed, he was eager to talk once more and looked upon me with the usual brightness in his eyes. "I panicked, you see—started thinking about…certain things. Complex things."

I nodded. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"But that's the problem Old Sport," he frowned, "I _can't_."

"Why not?"

"Because," he hesitated, as if he were struggling, before taking his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping it across his head. He pressed his lips together, stopped a moment more, and then turned back to me and murmured an almost inaudible: "I just can't, Nick. I'm no good at words like you. If I could—if I could just write, or something, like you do, then I could get the words out. You understand don't you, Old Sport?"

He said all this while glancing at the floor, and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. This behaviour of his was not foreign, nor was I not used to it—but it was the mere fact that he was worse with it around me. In this I, too, became anxious and gave frequently disquieted glances in his direction.

"Nick…?"

"S—sorry," I started, wetting my lips. "I'm a little disconcerted, Gatsby. Surprised, is all, because you—well, you're acting strangely. Stranger than usual."

"I am?" He seemed surprised, almost as if he had barely noticed his own severe anxieties. I could have laughed, been contemptuous, but what I wanted to do more than anything was to spill the deepest, darkest secrets regarding certain feelings I harboured for him.

Gatsby paced the room restlessly, hands wrapped tightly around his cane and held himself like a man who's trying to keep his emotions deathly secret. My own emotions were carefully concealed beneath a constructed mask of nonchalance—only, I hoped it worked and I was not duly deluding myself into thinking things as others often did.

And then, suddenly, he turned with a startling expression on his face and in a feverish tone uttered: "I miss the parties, Old Sport. The Green Light; the noise the floorboards made in my garage—hell, I even miss that damned pool!"

His language alarmed me. I had never, not even in his darkest moments, seen him act in such a manner or hold himself in such a way. He seemed almost weaker, considerably confined to a feeble attempt at concealing his true emotions under a mask, and not entirely himself. But I remained calm—for the both of us, as I had done many a time—and offered the man a silent reassurance in the form of a pat on the back.

But what happened next—nothing, nothing could have prepared me for it. Nothing could have prepared me for the way he tossed his cane to the side with such carelessness, grabbed my shirt with both hands and brought my lips crashing onto his own with such ferocity I gasped. He was rough; not at all how I had imagined our first kiss, and placed his leg in between my crotch, and backed us up against the wall. Papers flew and books scattered as we went, but neither Jay, nor I, could take our minds off of the moment that presented itself to us so freely, without such care. In that moment we were exempt from the world; two floating, free bodies without any constraints, worries or fears. We were within, inflamed, entwined and bound together with passion. And my heart fluttered with such speed I feared it would burst from my ribcage.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **

**Consider this a filler. I've got awful writer's block, and I am afraid this isn't terribly good.**

**I am also aware that this is going a bit slow. Next chapter will have skipped a period of about two/three weeks-and, don't worry; I will write briefly about what happened during those. (Not a lot!)**

* * *

Gatsby had withdrawn himself into his study, having shown a disposition to avoid whatever confusion the incident might have occurred. He was relatively benign; consumed by the fear that whispers would pass through the house, creeping through his office with the utmost care, his heart in his throat and his words scattered, almost brainlessly, slipping through his lips as he mumbled incoherent sentences. I only knew because I had dared to linger by that door, and the things I heard Jay mutter stung and tore at me so violently. It was as if I were trapped, entangled in a bush of thorns. I wanted nothing more in that moment than to bring him to my chest, and whisper soothing, sincere words, but I had neither strength nor the courage to do so. I was hurt by an action I still, to this day, shudder at the notion of.

When he looked upon me, after our fevered, passionate embrace, I could not recognise him. His eyes were so often bright and full of beautiful things, but this time they dulled to a dim light, and I knew to the extent of his struggle that I could not let, no matter how much my heart yearned for it, a moment such as this to occur ever again.

It seemed to me that at one beautiful moment we were two boats, crashing against the waves, with only our fears and our anxieties, which had brought us together in the first place, to anchor us. Now, we were borne back, drifting ceaselessly in different directions. I could feel our hands slipping away from each other—his icy, and cool, mine exuding warmth. But only warmth because a lingering sense of hope still lived within.

After the incident I had ran as far away as I could from Jay, and now found myself enjoying the shade under the large oak tree. From across the vast lawn the three men were setting up the fountain—but they struggled, much like the maids did when they attempted to clean the top of the oven, or much like a child does when learning to walk, and I could take it not longer. Nobody contributed anymore; we all drank too much, danced too much, ate too much—we were all blinded by material wealth, greedy and corrupt. And I had grown tired of never contributing.

I tucked the fallen strands of hair behind my ear, brushed down my knees and tucked the slip of paper I has been writing on away. As I approached the men they exchanged three, nervous glances; but I smiled, as nicely as one could, and that seemed to put them at ease.

"Good-day, sir," said one, tipping his hat.

He had a sort of rugged appearance; small, squinty eyes coloured a muddy brown, and a large, bushy beard that adorned his hollow face. His arms, thick, and muscular, were stained with toil and work and he held a dirtied handkerchief in one hand; and, with his right arm, leant against a nearby shovel.

His other two colleagues tipped their hats in my direction and offered me curious, confused glances. I tipped my own head in a friendly gesture, and said: "I just wanted to tell you, sirs, that you are doing a swell job." They seemed slightly taken aback by my compliment, and it was as if they had never received a compliment before. One of them, if I looked closely enough, was quite reddened in the face at my good-natured expression of commendation, and I was compelled to smile so brightly, it must have frightened them.

"We are?" questioned the man with his hat, leaning against the shovel. "Never 'eard anyone say something as kind as _that, _my good sir. How is it you've come to be so kindly, if I may ask?"

Startled by his suddenness of reply, I stood and blinked for a moment, before removing my jacket and tossing it towards the bushes. "I suppose," I started, rolling up my sleeves, "that after my near-death experience I have begun to re-evaluate life, sir."

"Near-death experience?" I turned to see the smallest of the three, a man no older then nineteen, peering up at me with widened, almost shocked, eyes. His face was tainted with soil and dirt, but there was still something aesthetically pleasing about him.

"Yes. I was shot." But I also did not wish to linger upon the matter of the subject any longer, and took up a shovel for myself and dug it, hard, into the ground.

"What are you doing, sir?"

"Please," I replied, looking towards the three, rather confused men with glaring enthusiasm, "I'd like to help, if that's alright with you. I've nothing else to do."

The older one nodded with considerable reluctance. "You can help, but don't touch that sledgehammer."

I nodded, my lips pressing together. From beside me the young boy gently touched my shoulder, and as I looked towards him I could have sworn I saw the curtain from Gatsby's study twitch. Nevertheless, I ignored it and looked the young man directly in his squared face.

"Yes…?" I smiled.

"Sir! You just watch yourself now."

I did, and worked well into the long hours of the evening with the three other men. We stopped once or twice to cool ourselves down with fresh lemonade, courtesy of the cook, and every now and again we would crawl towards the large oak tree to bask in its glorious shade.

When we returned to work, I was exhausted; my eyelids drooped heavily, my breathing heavy, and my hands ached and were red raw. The distinctive tang of sweat and dirt filled my nostrils, and I got so dirty my once pale clothes had turned a shade of muddy brown. In fact, I was considerably unrecognisable by the time we had finished—so much so, that one of the servants mistook me for one of the working men and placed a bill in my hand.

"I believe this is yours, Frank," I said, turning to the other boy.

And then we all swapped addresses—so we could write, I insisted—and clapped one another on the back, before the three men took off in their van and I was left, yet again, standing suffering with my isolation; the lingering, creeping feeling seeping through my thoughts.

I suppose I did it to make jealous, knowing full well that from behind his curtains, in his own lonely existence, Gatsby was watching. Yet I did not care, because dinner was to be a desolate affair, and I am not afraid to admit I resented Gatsby in that increasingly lonely moment. And nor am I afraid to admit that in the weeks to come, I yearned for his touch.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N; Thanks for reading, and for your patience. I don't particularly regard this chapter with kind eyes-but, I'm very critical of everything I write.**

* * *

Numerous weeks passed by before Jay or I spoke. He seemed distant; withdrawn from life and disgusted by everyone and everything—not at all like the Gatsby I had come to know. He became exhaustible during those long, arduous weeks of inexcusable silence. And I became so restless I could hardly bear to stay captive in those bleak walls for much longer, and sought out fresh, exciting ventures in the city.

But there was no such luck. And on the fourth week, exhausted, and questioning my own morality, I forced myself to dine with Jay in the great hall.

The ticking of the clock in the background was incessant, and the sound of servants clattering about in the kitchen wafted through the air. Somewhere in the background Billy was clearing up the remnants of a broken vase—broken by Jay, as a matter of fact, in a hurried rush—and Gatsby sat opposite me with the expression of a tortured soul, his finger stroking the ring as he so often did when consumed by maddening anxiety.

And then Gatsby stopped fiddling with his ring long enough to open his mouth and accusingly said: "I saw you walking with that chap, Old Sport. You looked like you were having a…swell time."

"Why… I _did_. In fact, I met with him once or twice, and we visited one of those—Speakeasy's," I confessed after my second glass of bitter but rather impressive wine. "I don't believe it matters though, Gatsby. We drank wine, listened to some Jazz, and then—"

"Alright, Old Sport. That's quite enough."

"—E—nough?"I paused. The wine suddenly tasted worse than before, and I precariously rested it on the right-hand side of my plate. My expression must have been foul, for Gatsby averted his eyes from me and they seemed to flutter restlessly about the room, as if searching for something else.

I was considerably bold on that very day. Normally, and without hesitation, I would have withdrawn myself from the situation; pretended, even, that nothing ever happened and would try to change the subject matter to something more palatable. But this time I was tired, and aggravated; and I could hardly settle for another vast, lonely week of silence. I detested the lingering glances as we passed each other on the stairs; the way Gatsby would regard me with guilt, or longing; and I despised the way we so secretly lived in the empty halls, avoiding each other for all we were worth. And I stood from my chair, straightened my bowtie, and set myself down on the chair nearest to Gatsby.

"You make me feel uncivilised, Gatsby," I complained, reaching out to him with my hand. "Can't we talk about this, like the adult men we are?"

I honestly meant no harm with my comment, but Gatsby jerked in his chair, his eyes widening in panic, and he stood abruptly. "Talk! There's nothing to talk about!" he broke out, violently. "You—you've got your…_friend_, Old Sport, and me—well, I've got…_something—_but that isn't the point! What matters is—what…matters is that you're happy. Yes. You are happy, aren't you Old Sport? And that's all there is to it—and all there ever will be. Your happiness."

"I'm not happy," I confessed, the alcohol and my weariness having taken a toll on the logical part of my brain. "I miss—you, Jay. There's a persistent wail in the back of my mind, and I absolutely hate this. It terrifies me."

For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to understand, as if my true and honest pain was something utterly incomprehensible, and frowned.

"Not happy? How can't you be happy, Old Sport! Look at the house we have here, and—and your clothes! Haven't you ever seen such fine silken shirts?" He persisted, despite my open mouth, and forced me to stand with him with a tug on my shirt.

"They're from England," he insisted," the finest, most beautiful shirts in the world—and they're yours, Old Sport! Entirely yours. Isn't this enough?"

I rose slowly; my eyebrows rose in astonishment, and I regarded Gatsby with a look that suggested I was feeling utterly admonished and startled, before reaching up to my own shaven jawline and rubbing it.

"I'm not Daisy, Jay. I'm merely her cousin."

"What do you _mean_ by that?" he exclaimed, incredulous.

"All of this," I started, gesturing to the lavish hall," is enough. More than what I need."

"But I—don't understand, Old Sport. At least, not entirely! I thought—isn't this what you wanted?"

I turned from him, lonely, and sad, before waving at him in a fashion awkward and stiff. I addressed him with certain decisiveness: "Goodnight, Gatsby. We shall talk more to-morrow," and nothing more was said.

* * *

Vince rang. He _implored_, but I could make neither of the events due to my indecisive nature and disgust with myself. Was it so wrong, to throw him over when he had already meant so little? Incredibly so. And it was cruel of me to even think of treating Vince in that manner. But, as tall, dark and cunningly charming as he was, he was no Gatsby and I could not help but notice his wandering eyes, nor the way he would treat women with such little regard.

He was Jordan Baker all over again. I was not actually in love, but rather made curious by his nature and the way he would string words together so poetically. I was proud to have attended events with him, hanging off of his every word; but with each moment I spent with him, I realised I could not have loved him like I loved Gatsby.

He rang again the following morning, after I threw him over, and there was something indistinct in his tone. Usually his voice rang out like a beautiful melody, but this time it had dulled to a tiresome lull and no longer satisfied me.

"Nick Carraway! Have you thrown me over?"

I turned carefully to the side; a position in which I was quite sure concealed my temper, and could ensure that Gatsby wasn't within earshot. He may have been, however, because he had that same unreadable expression on his face when he listened to your conversation, and stood, fiddling with his ring.

"N-_iiii_-ck?"

"Sorry," I murmured, "Maid was in the room."

From the other side of the line I could hear his eyes roll, and I just knew he had that same dashing smirk on his face. "How delicious, Carraway. So I'm your dirty little secret, hm? Wife made you throw me over, didn't she?"

I stumbled across words; foolishly, quickly, and gripped the phone tightly. "I—I—I don't have one," I replied absently. "Never did, and probably never will, Vince. And—I'm sorry, Vince, but you most certainly aren't my dirty little secret, because I'll be _damned _if I ever get involved with you again!"

"Why the change of heart?" he purred. "Why, the other day you talked about coming to the Speakeasy again—and not just for some _Jazz, _either."

"Don't talk like that. It's uncivilized."

"How funny!" Then he added irrelevantly: "You ought to meet my sister."

"I'm sure she's charming."

"She's twenty-three years old—a singer. Quite famous here, in Chicago. Haven't you ever seen her?"

"Never. "

Gatsby, who had been hovering restlessly around the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder, his eyes wide and serious. "Hand me the phone."

"Who's that, Nick? Have you been seeing someone else?"

"In a way," I answered shortly. "I wasn't entirely seeing you, after all."

Gatsby had grown impatient. He glanced at the phone with considerable disgust and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more, before wrenching it from my nervous hands and said: "Listen here, Old Sport—stop calling Nick! If you call again, I'll make sure you wake up to a steaming bag of dog crap on your lawn!"

And then, with a flourish and a surprisingly skilful seriousness, slammed the phone down onto its perch and hissed "Good-day!"

"Jay?"

"So sorry, Old Sport. Do you think that was terribly rude?"

I laughed, flushed. "Awfully so. But we were both angry, and I suppose in moments like those we are bound to be forgetful and—well, forget ourselves."

He nodded, and clapped me on the back with a reassuring hand. "I suppose what's done is done," he replied, "and I certainly don't fancy having to speak with that vile man again."

"Vince wasn't entirely vile."

"But-?"

I smiled gradually, and affectionately, before wrapping my arm around Jay's shoulders and cupping a hand to his face.

"He did have his moments, I suppose."

"Yes, well. It's all fixed now, isn't it, Old Sport?" Gatsby looked at me sideways-and I knew that destructible nervousness had returned. He hurried the phrase "fixed now," as though it had bothered him before, and started walking at a pace so hurried I had to follow him quickly—lest I lose him in the vast house.

"We're going out," he interrupted, tossing me my hat, "to town."

"What part?" I inquired casually, perching it on my windswept hair.

"No idea."

I had the feeling Jay just wanted to get out, and away, from the intimacy he so feared, yet at the same time, undeniably craved. And so we did go to town. We dined—had lunch, dinner and snacked—brought ourselves exquisite tennis gear on Jay's request, and scoured the city for evening entertainment.

The last moment of that day I remember to quite an impressive extent. Tired, from the inexhaustible variety of the city and of life, I had settled myself down cosily against Jay's shoulder, only to find myself slipping away into inevitable sleep just moments late. And I remember, clear as day, the awkwardness to which Gatsby pressed a kiss to my sweaty head, before jerking away and staring out of the window, aghast at what he had done.

Gatsby was shy and awkward when it came to romance. He was not as skilled as others so explicitly believed.


	9. Chapter 9

**May have to put this on hiatus, do the the difficulty I'm having writing it. **

**A****nd yes: this chapter _is_ ridiculously short, but I am struggling through writing it.**

**If you want to read something I am currently working on (and it is a Natsby fic), it's called 'This Charming Man', and is a Modern AU (In which I am painstakingly re-writing the Great Gatsby)**.

* * *

"Jay?"

We were both lounging in the cool shade of the oak tree. Gatsby had his back up against the tree, and I was lying down with my head in his lap. Every now and again his fingers would stroke my boiling hot forehead, sometimes curling them into my mass of hair; and once, Gatsby placed a cool kiss to my cheek. We were as content as we could possibly be, and wished for nothing to disrupt the serenity.

"What is it, Old Sport?"

"I'd like to stay like this forever."

He hummed under his breath, as if in agreement, and laced his fingers through mine. I had a feeling this was about as affectionate as we were going to get, and gratefully accepted the gesture with an affectionate smile towards the sky.

"We could stay like this forever, couldn't we?" Jay laughed. "We'd be sunburnt, but we could. And I'd have everything brought to you, Old Sport, so you wouldn't have to move from that very comfortable spot you're sitting in."

I laughed too, loudly and lovingly. "I'd risk the sunburn, if it meant I could stay with you."

"And you wouldn't get bored?"

His features were wrought with a sudden bout of seriousness. He looked at me in a way which screamed desperation, and seemed to spill every emotion he had in that current moment. His eyes had never been so expressive, so profound, and I suppose his mind was whirring with all the possibilities—terrible, and otherwise.

"Of course not," I reassured him, pressing my lips to his fingers. "I'd be happy to spend an eternity here, with you, under this tree. We could talk, and laugh and—"

"And what else, Old Sport?"

This time I was the first to move. I reached up and wound my arms around his tanned neck; my eyes readily trained on his beautiful face, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"We could just sit, and love one another," I suggested, almost as if it were the easiest thing in the world. "We could do that, couldn't we?"

He hesitated. Some part of me still doubted if he was truly comfortable with being so open, but if he was not, he did not show it and rolled me from him so I was lying on the floor. Then he leaned over me, his hot breath spilling on my neck, and he smiled.

"What's gotten into you, Jay!"

"Let's just lie here," he suggested, rolling from me. "Let's just lie here."


	10. Chapter 10

In the years that followed Gatsby and I grew considerably closer. I supposed, after the two wonderful years we had spent together, that if I were a woman and morals were looser, Jay would have proposed. We would spend our evenings lounging under sprawling stars; our limbs entangled in a heavenly embrace, with only our drunken haze sedating us from the shrill, metallic cry of the phone. Betsy, our maid, would spend the best of her day begging, pleading with us to answer the line. Yet however much she implored Jay turned his back, and would continue to speak to me in hushed tones.

If anyone in the household had begun to suspect that Jay and I were in a romantic relationship, they did not make it known. We had heard whispers from the cook, laughter from the chauffer (who Gatsby swiftly sent away, after pressing a hundred dollar bill in his hand) and excited, girlish cries of glee from a maid. I also regret that I did not listen to these rumours and instead left it to Jay to deal with them, for a swiftly as it all seemed to hush, I had no idea of the trouble that was to come. That shrill, urgency of the phone when it rings, even today, is the embodiment of my disgust for Tom Buchannan. I had never known a man to be so careless.

And on the fifth day, Betsy came to us in tears. She wrung her soaking handkerchief with her tiny, neat hands and wailed long into the hours. Neither Jay nor I could console her; she only wept furiously, throwing herself to the floor, and declaring: "I love you Mr Gatsby, and Mr Carraway—buh-buh...you shoulda taken the call! It's all goin' to the dawgs, Mr Gatsby!"

He turned to me with a look of confusion that matched mine, twisted the ring once, then twice, before kneeling beside poor Betsy, and offering her a fresh handkerchief—straight from his own pocket. She took it in her nimble fingers, pressed down hard on her red nose, and wept some more before Gatsby could take it no longer, and pulled the sobbing woman into his chest. In the history of masters I am, more than certain, that Gatsby was the kindest, and most honourable of all. He could never have hurt a servant, or even so much as turned a blind eye to them; he acknowledged them, cared for them, thanked them. If one ever did any wrong he would punish them justly, but never cruelly. And as I looked on at the scene unfolding before my very own eyes, I felt a pang of compassion for Betsy, who had, unlike any of the other servants, consistently tried to push us together. There was something motherly about the way she seemed to think, and Gatsby obviously, after having lost his own, preferred her company above all. If I looked close enough, I could see the irises of his eyes widen and glisten in despair; tears lined his eyes, ready to fall, and he rested a strong hand on her head, making gentle stroking movements as he tried to calm her down,

Eventually Betsy had calmed down enough for us to understand what she's been crying about. We led her over to the large armchair, which resided near the bookcase with all our old, leather-bound books, ' and Gatsby held her hand while I fetched her a refreshing glass of lemonade. He seemed to speak softly, slowly, and it was as if time itself had slowed to a standstill. Betsy had obviously told him whatever was troubling her, and was even more vocal than before, proclaiming she was a terrible maid, and that Gatsby should have never left the safety of his study for his job.

* * *

**A/N: It is with great sadness that I have decided to quit fanfiction writing. I may return later on at some point, but you must know it will be under a new profile, and I will make no reference as to who I am. So this is, essentially, goodbye.**

**You may be wondering why I leave you with this half-baked chapter; the reason of this is, quite simply, because the anon harassing me on Tumblr found my account and sent me various vile messages. They were homophobic, rude and belittling. As you can imagine, I've received 'negative' reviews over the years, and yes, I have been sort of able to deal with them, but this is insane. I've been put off and can't enjoy writing anymore. I will not attempt to write anymore for a while. Regardless of what happened, the correct steps were taken to alert the site and this person was banned. **

**I hope you understand why I am quitting, and thank you all who supported me. Times are tough, and I can't simply do this anymore. **

**Much love and kind regards, **

** Ziggy. **


End file.
